


Poster Boy

by dieofthatroar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, I swear I do ship Yurio with happiness, M/M, Post-Series, Yuuri and Victor in St. Petersburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dieofthatroar/pseuds/dieofthatroar
Summary: In a drawer beside his desk, Yuri Plisetsky keeps a poster: A 2012 Japanese national team poster of Yuuri Katsuki. He had never been good at explaining himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It started with me loving the "Yurio had a crush on Yuuri" theory and turned into something entirely different.

In a drawer beside his desk, Yuri keeps a poster. It used to be tacked to the wall next to his bed, in between the calendar and the bus schedule, but he’s taken down recently for… many reasons. But he couldn’t get himself to throw it away. Instead, it lies waiting for him, the squeaky wheels on the metal roller mocking him each time he opened the drawer to take a look:

A 2012 Japanese national team poster of Yuuri Katsuki.

 

***

 

It had started innocently enough. Yuri was twelve and Grand Prix placements were out and he was searching for where his rink mates would be going. Georgi was going on and on about the differences between venue feels and the food he would be able to get before the competition and where he remembered had fancy pillows with mints. Yuri just wanted to see how possible it would be to talk Yakov on letting him tag along. If Viktor went to France, and if his junior Grand Prix event was soon after…

Yuri stopped scrolling when he saw the name. Yuri. Another one, Japanese. Huh, he didn’t realize it was a name anywhere else. He kept scrolling.

 

Yakov allowed him to go watch the Rostelecom Cup that year. It wasn’t France, but it was something. He watched from the stands in the athlete area, wearing his junior national attire because it was close enough to what the seniors wore that nobody except Russian skaters would notice the difference. (As if they wouldn’t notice how young he looked.)

Yuri didn’t have a style to his skating yet. No signature to his performance that others could point to and say _that is the program of a champion._ Didn’t know what a style of his could be except _the best_. Powerful? Ethereal? Whatever the opposite of Georgi’s at least, surely.

He watched the competition closely for ideas to bring back to Yakov.

After four or five programs, Yuri grew restless in his seat. He wanted to get up to get some food, stretch his legs, until he heard the announcer say the name, _Yuuri Katsuki_. Yuri sat back down. One more. He’d watch one more because he was curious about the boy with his name.

And the style he saw, the movements and the flow and the artistry (however much he wanted to spit that word back out when it climbed onto his tongue) was nothing like a _champion_ , but it said the world about the skater. Yes, he flubbed some jumps. It wasn’t as clean as the last few skaters he’d seen. But the performance made Yuri’s mouth go dry and his heart race.

 _I want to know who that Yuuri is_.

 

Back home, Yuri looked him up. Japanese national team for the first time, trained in Detroit. He clicked around, but not that much official information outside junior results. Some interviews, though they were mostly in Japanese. Yuri was able to find a couple old programs on youtube. (He watched them five times each, moving his arms up in the air and lifting his leg with the music by the final watch. Why did it look so _right_ when Yuuri did it?)

From there, he found a few more videos. Shaky phone-captured things with two boys at the edge of a rink, pink-cheeked and smiling into the lens.

“Smile!”

“No, Phichit!” Yuuri said, laughing. “I told you no more!”

“But it looked so good!”

“You’re _not_ uploading this!”

“Aw,” Phichit said. “What would your adoring fans think?”

Yuuri scoffed. “Fans?” he said, putting his hand over the camera. The screen went dark.

 

“Look at this, Mila,” Yuri said, passing the phone to her. On the screen is a video of Yuuri Katsuki’s short program at the World Championships.

“What about it?”

“Just… the moment when he starts the step sequence, right? The timing with the music there, and the energy, and…” Really, Yuri wasn’t sure what to say about it. Just that he wanted somebody else to see.

“It doesn’t look too special to me.”

Yuri opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was a spark there that he didn’t see in any of the other skaters he was used to watching. Something different. He didn’t know _what_ , though. He couldn’t explain it.

“Who is this?” Mila asked

“Just some Japanese skater,” Yuri answered. He didn’t mention his name.

 

When Yuuri Katsuki made it to the GPF, Yuri cheered for his favorite.

When he failed, Yuri got angry.

 _Just some Japanese skater, huh?_ Mila had said. She said it with a conspiring smile that Yuri didn’t ask for.

And then came Viktor, the little shit. And Yuuri (the version of Yuuri that didn’t walk Yuri’s dreams and didn’t talk to him through a camera in the night) had stars in his eyes when he looked at Viktor.

_Not all skaters look up to you._

 

After Yuri came back from Hasetsu, he took the poster off of his wall and shoved it under his bed.

After Yuri won the GPF, he dug it out again and put it in the drawer. So he could look at it again. Once in awhile.

 

***

 

“Yurio,” Yuuri says with a little pout. “Please come? Viktor says my Russian is still terrible but I’m too hungry to wait.”

Yuri scowls. “You know they can speak English.”

“They never understand me.”

“They’re fucking with you.”

“Please?”

Yuri finishes tying his shoes and rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Only because you’re pathetic.”

At the little cafe around the corner from the rink, Yuri helps with Yuuri’s order, again. Like they haven’t done this countless times since he had moved to St. Petersburg. Like Yuuri hadn’t tried and failed to learn enough vocabulary to order on his own.

“Bilingual seems good enough,” Yuuri says, in his defense, as they sit down at a table by the window.

“Do you miss speaking Japanese?”

“I still call my family,” he says. “And go online. It’s not like I never use it. What, are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Obviously,” Yuri says. He cups his hands around the mug of tea, warmth seeping through the pads of his fingers, and stares across the table. Yuuri’s hair has gotten longer and he’s developed a tick to push it out of his eyes. The sun glints in his glasses as he smiles.

“And here I thought you were starting to warm up to me. Or do you only come over to our apartment to hang out with Makkachin?”

“Of course not. Just the free food, when you’ll give it to me.”

“I paid for your lunch!”

“A lunch you wouldn’t have, if not for my kindness,” Yuri says, pointing a finger at him. The laugh he receives makes his heart beat a little faster.

It’s stupid, this feeling that grows in him each time he gets time with Yuuri. It’s selfish to indulge, it’s unfair. Yuri wants so much to stake his own claim around him. Say it was _him_ who noticed the talent in him first. It was _Yuri_ who deserves the attention back. But the little triumph he would gain in telling him he was a fan before Viktor even knew who Yuuri was would be drowned in the embarrassment that would follow.

Yuuri stares out the window and Yuri follows his gaze.

“Viktor staying late with Yakov again?”

Yuuri nods. “I feel bad. I have ice time with him in the mornings. I always tell him he can use the time to work on his programs as well, but he says he wants to separate coach time and skater time. It means he’s there such long hours.”

“It’s his choice.”

“It still feels like my fault.”

 _Love_ is what Viktor calls it when Yuuri goes all doe-eyed during practice, but Yuri doesn’t know what love is. The feelings he understands are pointier, rougher. More self-centered and needy.

 _Look at me, look at me!_ Just like a little kid.

“It isn’t your fault, Katsudon,” he says. “Viktor’s just an idiot who doesn’t know his own limits.”

“He isn’t an idiot,” Yuuri says, a little defeated. Yuri recognizes the look.

“Oi,” he says.

Yuuri turns to him.

“We beat his records,” Yuri says. “Both of us. If you do that mopey thing again I think I’m going to throw up.”

“It isn’t that,” Yuuri says. “It’s… It’s hard to explain. You wouldn’t understand, you’ve trained with him so long. But me as a kid, always looking up to him? It’s hard to shake that sometimes, still.”

“You’re his fiancé.”

“See? I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

“No.” The cup rattles as he adjusts his seat. Looks away. Hides the blush across his nose in a sneer. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  


Here’s the thing: people exist in ones and twos. Singles and pairs. Skating, living, working, and all of the rest. Yuri is convinced, throughout his life, that he is better alone. He could achieve more and be put on the pedestal with a gold medal around his neck because he had climbed there by himself. He _steals_ from others - ideas, tricks, tempers. But it is for his patchwork quilt he sews from scraps of others lives to wrap himself in. He hides behind the bits and pieces that he makes his own.

Yuri looks at photos sometimes, pictures of himself on articles online, on blogs, the ones he posts himself, and realizes that others could see his isolation too. It’s so glaring, out there for the world to see. He wonders how anybody could stand to be close to him because all he sees is the space around him that others don’t dare to touch. A cloud. Invisible spikes. He puts them there himself.

Yuuri asked him once to take a picture of the two of them during a practice, shortly after he had arrived in St. Petersburg. Yuri had refused. Played it off as embarrassment that Yuuri was butting into his life, but really, he was just imagining how the photo would look next to all the others online. He could see the misshapen way the two of them would fit together on a frame and it repulsed him. It would be awkward and uneven and it wouldn’t be true. Yuuri fit so well with Viktor that they didn’t have to try. Everybody could see it. When Yuuri skates, it’s clear there’s always someone else out there, with him. It’s clear that he _belongs_. That his skating is half of a conversation or a duet. But with Yuri? There’s no room for him there. It would only make noise.

It would be easier, Yuri supposes, if they weren’t so good for each other. Yuuri had reached the execution Yuri had always hoped he would, gained confidence, impressed others as he had impressed him. Viktor had new energy, inspiration.

Neither would ever need him as he needed the two of them. And he couldn’t hate either of them, no matter how much he had tried.

“That one didn’t have the same height,” Yakov was saying to him. “Try again.”

Yuri goes out again, picking up speed for his combination jump. Again and again. He imagines Viktor’s takeoff, Yuuri’s landing. His free leg and his arms just so.

Here he was, champion, still imitating. Yuri had beaten them _both_ , but when skating was built off the passions of others, the feeling never quite leaves.

“Better,” Yakov says. “Again.”

From across the rink, he sees how Yuuri hugs Viktor tight and how Viktor blushes and grins into his neck.

“Gross,” Yuri shouts at them. Viktor laughs.

  


Sweaty and exhausted from another long day, Yuri sits in the stands to watch the others practice. Yuuri’s working on a new short program, he had heard about it when he had gone over for dinner last week. They were still playing with the theme.

A young man sits on the bench to his left and Yuri feels the heat of eyes on him. He had never seen this man before. Stocky and auburn-haired, Yuri noted that his upper body was too built to be a figure skater. Hockey, maybe. Yuri goes back to watching the practice.

“You’re Yuri, right?” he says. “Yuri Plisetski?”

Yuri takes a sip of his water. “Yes.”

“I’m Alexei,” he says, holding out his hand to shake. Yuri stares at it.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asks. Alexei slowly retracts his hand.

“I have a meeting with Yakov,” he says. “But I’m a little early.”

Yuri glances at the clock. Twenty till four.

“I’m a designer. Costumes, that is,” Alexei continues. “Yours, actually. For your free program. Well, not entirely me. I’m interning for Inna Vasiliev and did some of the work for that costume. Did me proud at the Grand Prix! Couldn’t stop telling my friends that I designed that. Or, helped. You know.”

Yuri sets his water bottle down. He has a horrible habit of chewing on the cap and he’d rather not in front of strangers. “I guess you want a thank you?”

“No, no! I should be thanking you! Inna gave me more independent work after that, said I had real talent. That’s what I’m meeting with Yakov about.” Alexei shifts so his body is facing more toward Yuri than the ice. “I actually came early with the hopes of watching you skate a little, in person. But, well…”

Yuri has learned quickly not to indulge fans, but this feels different. Like some gear was shifting around him and the world snaps into something more equal. More balanced.

“I can get back on,” he says. “If you still want to see.”

“Would you?”

“Sure.”

  


“So, I was thinking like this,” Yuuri says before launching into a rather complicated step sequence. There’s no music over the speakers, though Yuri could hear it in his mind from the times he had listened to the file Yuuri had emailed him. A violin concerto, bittersweet.

Yuri looks on in fascination, drawn in again to the story behind the skating. It never fails. Yuuri is nothing if not consistent in playing with Yuri’s breath.

He skates back, looking worried. “I just can’t tell if that’s the same tone as the rest of what I’ve been working on,” Yuuri says. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s…” Yuri wants to say beautiful, but stops himself. Those words are for Viktor’s lips. He knows his place. “It’s showy. But in a good way. The _catch the judges eye before hitting them with a quad flip_ way.”

“Viktor wants the toe-loop combo there.”

“I think you’ll make more of an impression with the flip.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“So do it your way.”

“It’s a higher starting score if I arrange my jumps the other way.”

“Your fans will like it more your way.”

Yuuri laughs. “Fans?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know they’re out there.”

  


On Saturday mornings, Yuri works with the young beginner skaters. It’s surprisingly calming, actually, when the rink is filled with five to seven-year-olds’ giggles and tears. He teaches three-turns and crossovers and cringes when friends try to catch each other’s falls. They all end up sprawled on the ice, in the end.

Yuri feels useful, here. Needed.

They follow him like ducks when their hour is over, giddily pulling at his hands and asking him for just one more jump! _Can you do the spin where you pull your leg all the way up?_ They squeal, _Show us! Show us!_

“It looks like _you_ have quite the fanbase,” Yuuri says as he walks in with Viktor. They have practice time after the ice from lessons is cleared.

Yuri waddles forward, a couple kids still clinging to his legs. He crouches down, extracting each from their hold, and promises them he’ll see them next week. Then, waves them goodbye as they find their parents in the bleachers. “I think I prefer these little guys to Yuri’s Angels.”

“Fans your size,” Viktor says.

Yuri’s lip curls and he wants to flip him off, but the kids are still watching. So he smiles instead - big and fierce.

  


They were loud, sometimes. Between the kisses.

“No!” Yuuri yells. “Viktor you don’t get to say that and expect…”

“ _I’m_ your coach. I will if I have to.”

“That’s unfair and you know it.”

Viktor walks away without another word and Yuuri puts his hand to his temple.

“Lover’s spat?” Yuri says, leaning on the boards some feet away.

“Not right now, Yurio.” Yuuri starts to skate away.

“You know he’s just being stubborn. He’ll come back in about ten minutes, begging for your forgiveness.”

“I said, _shut up_ _!_ ” Yuuri snaps. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

Yuri holds the boards tight, a knot welling up in his throat. It’s nothing, it’s nothing. Nothing except angry words. But it’s the same words he repeats in his head, to himself. Yuuri only ever _deals_ with him. Only ever puts conscious effort into Yuri’s childish fantasy of closeness between them.

Yuri steps off the ice and tears off his skates. He doesn’t want to be here when Viktor _does_ come back and they _do_ kiss and hug and make it all better. He doesn’t want to watch it again.

As he’s leaving the rink, he bumps into Alexei.

“Oh, Yuri!” Alexei says.

Yuri readjusts the bag across his shoulder. He hopes he doesn’t look as upset as he feels. “You looking for Yakov again? He’s in the training room with…”

“No, no. I was… I was actually looking for you.”

“Me?”

“I heard about your program, Firebird right? I think it’s perfect. I had some ideas I wanted to get your input on. If that’s alright.”

“Sure,” Yuri says, softly at first. Then, stronger. “Yes, that sounds good. Lunch? There’s a place I like to go around the corner.”

They talk about the program Yuri is working on. How Alexei thinks Stravinsky is a perfect challenge the season after a successful senior debut. He can put his superior background in ballet on display while pushing the boundaries of storytelling in his performance. It’s mature. Interesting. Yuri preens.

They talk about his costume. What elements Yuri likes, what he needs for free movement. No ruffles or free edges by his waist, if he can help it. They annoy him when he jumps. Neck and arms are alright. The feet ruffles on his last costume, though. Those were a little weird.

“Sorry, sorry! You can blame me for that.”

Yuri learns that Alexei is from Kazan originally, but moved to St. Petersburg for university. He takes classes part time while working for Inna Vasiliev. He just turned 21 this month and is looking to build up his portfolio before graduating and making his own way in the industry.

“And designing for me is going to help with that, huh?”

“If you do well, especially.”

“I’ll do my best.”

  


The next time Yuri meets up with Alexei, it’s the next week when Viktor gets a cold and Yuuri has to cancel their plans for dinner. Yuri sits there, on his couch, with his phone still in his hand and nothing planned for the rest of the day. He was expecting conversation. There were things he had planned he wanted to talk about - the book Yuuri had lent him over the weekend, the progress he was making on his free program.

He decides to text Alexei.

They go to a French restaurant that Alexei picks out. It’s fancy, not exactly Yuri’s taste, but it isn’t like he can’t afford it. There are some holdovers from his time in Moscow that still follow him, no matter how comfortable the money he has now can make him. He still looks at the price of everything. Calculates. Circles around other’s help like it’s both degrading and a blessing. He still feels uncomfortable in places like this.

They sit close to the bar, where the lights are dim and he has to read the menu by firelight. Very much not his taste. He asks Alexei what he should get, and ends up ordering the same thing as he does.

Yuri likes the way Alexei talks, though long-winded at times. He leaves spaces for Yuri to fill, asks questions and listens like he’s not so young. Like he has a life that has been just as full. There aren’t assumptions of his character like he’d felt when he’d spoken at length with any of his fans, but he was knowledgeable enough about the skating world. It makes it easy. Though, throughout, Yuri keeps expecting a catch. No friendship he’s ever had as bloomed from nothing like this. Nobody makes much of an effort to seek him out.

So, Yuri keeps the conversation in neutral territory. His program, Alexei’s work, the upcoming competition season.

The conversation quiets when dessert is served. Yuri digs his way through the chocolate cake.

When they get up to leave, Alexei tilts his head in this strange way. Silent. _This is it_ , Yuri thinks. _He’s put up with me enough. Time to send the little kid home_.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“Not too far. I can walk.” _You can leave me here, it’s fine._

“Can I…?” Alexei says, shrugging on his jacket. “Can I see it?”

“You want to come over?”

“Yeah.”

Yuri blinks. He doesn’t much like anybody over to his apartment. It isn’t clean, for one, but it’s also his sanctuary. With his books and his bed and food in the fridge. He can’t imagine other people inside.

“Alright,” he says anyway. Because Alexei’s smile makes him think he said the right thing.

When they get through the door, Yuri asks if Alexei wants tea. He says yes and settles on his couch. Yuri fills the kettle, turns on the stove, and looks through his cabinets for two decently clean mugs. One is a kitschy Christmas one, months out of season, and another has cat ears, a present from his last birthday. He sets them on the counter.

The kettle starts to whistle and he clicks off the burner. When he turns, Alexei is right behind him. Close. Wine-breath between them. Alexei reaches out and cups his hand around Yuri’s shoulder, pulls him toward his chest, and watches him with steady eyes. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

And Alexei leans down and kisses Yuri, sweetly, gently. There are lips on his and Yuri doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t think this is what he wants, but he has no idea what he wants. He has vague notions - whose attention makes him happy, which long days make him lonely. But this physicality is so different. This heat over him, around him, that won’t let him go.

Until it does. Alexei breaks the kiss.

“The… tea…” Yuri manages to say. His mind is otherwise spinning.

Alexei takes a step back and smiles. Yuri can breathe again. “Yes,” he says. “The tea.”

Yuri turns and fills the pot, flush spreading over his face. Hands trembling, just a little. He can do this. He can do this. He’ll learn to like it, because tonight, at least he isn’t lonely.

  


One of the later competitions in the last season was in Beijing. Yuri was staying across the hall from Viktor and Yuuri, but had let himself into their room because their side of the building had a wonderful view of the city. It was something he always enjoyed when he traveled, looking down from above. For some reason, it was always those sorts of hotels they booked: high rises in cities that all looked vaguely the same, except when he looked out the window. The lights spread across the landscape in the night, the streets below, the illumination of the nearby windows. That trip, Yuri had spread the curtains out wide and stood, leaning against the pane and listening to Viktor and Yuuri chat before bedtime. They were talking about little things. Who brought the toothpaste (it turns out, neither one of them), what time they should set the alarm for (6:00 or 6:15, depending on how long Viktor intends to stay in the shower), which side of the bed they want (the eternal question: right/left, or door/window). Yuri, meanwhile, flipped on the TV and found the only channel in English, a repetitive world news show. He watched it for a while, until the same news cycled back again, and stared down at the patterns of cars moving through traffic out the window.

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered were arms around him and the sound of a door opening.

“Oh, you should let him rest.” Yuuri’s voice. Not his hands, though.

“He’ll be more comfortable in his own bed.” Viktor. His hands. Yuri squirmed and Viktor held him tighter. He was being carried, like a child past his bedtime.

As soon as he realized this, he kicked for real, bucking out of Viktor’s arms and falling onto the floor. “Fuck,” he swore to cover the heat rising to his cheeks. “What were you doing?”

Viktor looked unimpressed. “Helping you back.”

“I don’t need your help.” The statement was a reaction, more than real malice. Like a reflex to save himself from an apology.

Yuuri’s laugh from the open door was musical and light. “I told you not to carry him.”

“But Yuuri…” Viktor pouted.

Yuri rolled his eyes and sneered.

“Really, you two?” Yuuri said, teasing. “I can’t deal with you two like this.”

“But you love me,” Viktor said.

“Yes, yes, it’s a wonder, isn’t it? Off to bed. Both of you.” Yuuri ushered Viktor back into the room and gave a small wave to Yuri before shutting the door. “Goodnight.”

  


Nothing else happens that first night with Alexei, but over the next few weeks, he visits Yuri more often, each time asking for more. More time, more skin, more touches.

“You’re beautiful,” Alexei tells him, and Yuri’s heard it before, but never in that tone. It’s demanding. _You’re beautiful, therefore…_ And Yuri relents just a little bit each time.

He's so shy about the sex, still so uncomfortable in his body. No matter how many times Alexei tells him how pretty he is, how hard it is to keep his hands off of him, Yuri doesn’t know how to act. How to follow through with whatever his body has promised. He licks his lips and moans when he’s told he’s supposed to while letting himself be touched. Caressed. It’s like following a manual in another language. Sometimes he can guess, but sometimes he guesses wrong and Alexei needs to tell him how.

Other times, his body responds for him. Arousal is a feeling so far away. He detaches himself from the bed, the sheets, and pretends he’s in another room, brushing his teeth. Making lunch. Waits for it to be over so they can go back to friendly banter while watching that movie or playing that video game. But afterward, Alexei cleans both of them off and speaks languidly in his ear.

“I could tell you liked it.”

When he says it enough, after the sweat cools and he’s laying in bed listening to the sound of Alexei’s breathing, he can believe it too. He wants to.

  


One day, when Yuuri was putting his final choreography of his free program together, he asks for Yuri’s input. Yuri loves these sorts of days, focusing on expression and artistry, without yet the stress of competition. This is the time when Yuri gets to watch _his_ Yuuri Katsuki. The one who teases him and listens to his advice. When they get to skate together.

“Yes, that! That’s beautiful,” Yuuri says when Yuri completes a pass of the step sequence. Abridged, but with an element Yuri thought would go well with the rise of the music. He had felt it on the edge of a dream, falling asleep listening to Yuuri’s music. “Show it to me again?”

“You’ve seen it twice already!”

“Yes, but I want to get it right,” Yuuri says.

“Fine, fine. But watch carefully. I’m not doing it again.”

They skate until it’s late and the tiredness fills his bones. It’s a good sort of tired, deserved. The kind that will let him sleep easy at night. Eventually, when they’re packing up their things in the locker room, Viktor finds them.

“There you two are!” Viktor’s joy fills the room, like sunlight. Yuri watches Viktor kiss Yuuri, forces himself not to look away, and studies it. Notes the edge of a smile on Viktor’s lips when he pulls away, the easy lean back toward his partner. Yuuri’s hand on Viktor’s arm. Yuri files each longing look away for later use. He will do this just like how he learned skating. Watching, practicing, over and over.

  


The first time Alexei hits him, Yuri assumes he deserves it.

He’s been staying late at practice lately. Often times, it’s the only time he can get Yakov’s attention alone after all the others have gone home. He’s been so used to his whole life being skating, so he forgets to text Alexei that he would be arriving late to their dinner reservation that Friday night. Alexei is cold all through the meal, though Yuri apologizes many times, and when they get back to Yuri’s apartment, there is too much force in his attentions.

“Please, not tonight,” Yuri says pushing his hands away. He can feel that something is off in the way Alexei is standing there, looking at him like his eyes could tear him apart. “I’m just so tired.”

“You’re the one who made me wait,” he says, pushing Yuri against the wall.

“Fuck off, you know I have practice early tomorrow,” he says. “And strength training was hard today, and…”

Yuri’s words are cut off by a sharp kiss, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. When Yuri tries to shrug him off, Alexei catches him by the back of the neck and throws him onto the couch before landing a single blow to his ribs. Yuri’s stunned and can’t throw Alexei off when he climbs onto him. There are hands under his shirt, in his underwear. His clothes are pulled off and he’s naked and feels so small.

Yuri lets his mind go and imagines himself back on the ice, doing figures.

  


Alexei apologizes almost immediately. When he’s pulling his pants back on and grabbing a glass of water to drink. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just lost myself for a moment. Around you, I just… It won’t happen again.”

  


“Yurio, are you alright?” Yuuri asks the next time they’re together at the rink. “You’ve seemed distracted lately.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri says.

“You sure? Because you haven’t come to dinner for a while and I thought you might want to talk?”

“I said I’m fine,” he spits. “Leave it.”

Yuuri reaches out to him, brushing his hand over his side as he searches for Yuri’s hand. Yuri flinches back.

“What…”

“It’s nothing,” Yuri says quickly. “I fell hard yesterday, jump practice. You know how it is.”

“Yurio,” Yuuri says. “I…I know I’m just another skater to you, but, please. If there’s anything I can help with…”

Yuri stares at him, dumb. How could Yuuri not understand? He would never be just another skater, but Yuri doesn’t want to be in the way. Nobody would look at him like Yuuri looks at Viktor, so Yuri has to settle for how Alexei looks at him. He knows that’s how the world works. He’s been in it long enough to know that, at least.

  


“And then, Inna just threw the fabric on the floor and walked out!” Alexei talks excitedly about his last week at work while he and Yuri walk back from some shops downtown. The sun had just set and the dusk feels thick around Yuri’s cheeks.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! There’s no stopping her when she gets like that.” Alexei shakes his head. “It was actually great. The client had it coming, but none of us could say anything.”

The streetlamps flicker on above them. Yuri shivers, pulling his light jacket tighter around him. The last few weeks have been growing steadily warmer as they inched toward summer, but the nights were still chilly. The wind was picking up as well and tossing his hair over his face. Yuri ties his hair back and Alexei stops talking to watch.

“Cold?” Alexei asks.

“Only a little.”

Alexei puts his solid arm over Yuri’s shoulders and hugs him close, side by side, as they keep walking. Some of Yuri’s tightness disappears as the warmth seeps through his clothes.

“So, of course, the client is pissed now as well, demanding we compensate him on the ruined pieces. But we’re all standing there, trying not to laugh…”

The cars roll past them as they continue on their way and Yuri concentrates on the vibrations from their engines and from Alexei’s voice traveling from his throat so close to his ear. He glances up at the outline of his jaw (a few days past shaved) and leans forward to kiss it. It’s prickly and uncomfortable, but Alexei smiles and pulls Yuri a little tighter. Yuri is a little warmer.

  


One weekend, during the couple weeks that Viktor and Yuuri are visiting Japan, Alexei invites him to spend some time at his place. They’re hosting a party, mostly the university kids with some of Alexei’s friends from work.

He arrives after the party has already started becoming messy. The door opens to the smell of alcohol and salty food. “Hey!” says the person who lets him in. “It’s your skater!”

Alexei pokes his head into the front hall. “Yura! Come, come.” Yuri follows him into the kitchen where the table is surrounded by a four or five people, chatting over a bowl of chips. “Meet my friends.”

The girl closest to them introduces herself as Marta, studying in the same program as Alexei. “Heard a lot about you,” she says with a wicked smile. Yuri steals a glance up at Alexei. Somehow, he had assumed that Alexei spoke about him the same amount that Yuri spoke about Alexei. Though secrecy wasn’t what most people did with relationships, was it? What had Alexei told them? How was he supposed to know what these friends expected of him from these stories?

“I thought you would be shorter, in person,” the girl next to Marta says, still chewing her food. “On TV, you look smaller.”

Yuri blinks. “Really?”

They move to the living room where people loud German electronic music is filling the air through speakers that seem too big for the space. People around Yuri throw him their names, talk for a while, offer to dance. It’s busy and stuffy, but not all that bad. Alexei puts a drink in his hand.

“No thanks,” Yuri says, handing it back.

“Come on,” Alexei says. “It’s the good stuff. Or, at least not the worst stuff. Decided to spend lavishly for once.”

“I don’t drink.”

Alexei frowns. “Just a little?”

“I don’t like the taste.”

“Nobody _likes_ the taste, it’s about the feeling.” Alexei tips his own cup back, tongue lingering on the brim for a moment. It’s supposed to be sensual, the way he does it, but it just makes Yuri’s stomach roll. Alexei then puts the other cup to Yuri’s lips. “Your turn.”

There are reasons he didn’t drink, the least of which the taste, but there is no explaining when the plastic was already pressing against his closed mouth. The smell is overwhelming and sickening. Alexei’s other hand tightens around his waist and Yuri gives in and breathes through his mouth. Liquid slides down his throat.

“Not bad, right?” Alexei says as Yuri coughs. “Just like medicine. Now we can have a good time.”

Once the dizziness of the first shot kicks in, it’s easier to take the next couple drinks Alexei hands him - when they dance, during the drinking game, when the rest of the party bursts into song. Yuri becomes pliant and warm with drunkenness as his pillow between him and the rest. He almost doesn’t care about the kisses, even when others can see them. He’s flushed anyway, nobody can read the redness as shame.

When the party slows down and people start to head home, Yuri is thankful that Alexei lets him go. Alexei is too drunk to do much more tonight anyway, he’s already half-asleep on the couch. As he steps out into the night, his phone starts to ring, and Yuri (his reaction time still slowed from drink) jumps. He doesn’t want it to be Alexei, calling him back inside. He hesitates before looking at the number. Oh.

“Yuuri?” he says when he answers the phone.

“Yurio! Oh, it’s late, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, it’s fine. I was awake,” Yuri says. “Do you need something?”

“I just wanted to check in with you.” They talk a little as Yuri walks back to the bus. Yuri asks about Yuuko and how his parents are doing and imagines the ocean and the seabirds and remembers what it’s like to dip into the warm baths.

“Yurio, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound strange.”

“Tired,” he says, though he wishes he could say _save me._ He wishes he tell him that he wants to go home, to _his home_ where he feels safe. Blankets that aren’t tainted with sweat and semen. But it doesn’t exist like that anymore. And this is Yuuri he’s talking to. He’s never had the courage to tell him the truth. “It’s late.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Yeah,” Yuri replies and hangs up the phone.

  


Yuri starts to search for reasons to stay out of Alexei’s reach. He stays later and later at the rink - after Yakov leaves and after the lights start to go out in the halls. He also heads there early, picking up more beginner lessons to teach and bringing his lunch so he doesn’t have to leave. Not even when Yuuri and Viktor come back to Russia and they ask him to come eat with them. When he’s done with his long days, he heads straight home.

Yuri sometimes thinks of himself like a piece of clay, molded just right by many hands. Lilia and Yakov play with his ability, fold him and display him just right. Viktor does it more unconsciously, with the way he skates he knows people are watching to learn. And Yuuri? Yuuri asks. _Do you want to make that longer? Should you change that jump there?_ He wants Yuuri’s hands to… no. No, that isn’t quite right. He wants the comfort that would come from Yuuri’s attention enveloping him.

Yuri doesn’t like who he’s becoming under Alexei’s hands. They are too rough and too demanding. They make him bend in directions that he isn’t flexible in, and it hurts. When they fall asleep in the same bed, Alexei curled behind him, Yuri tries hard to bend just right so he fits, a puzzle piece forced into a place that isn’t right. Maybe it’s because he was always meant to be alone. It’s his fault it’s uncomfortable. It’s his fault that he needs to try so hard to pretend it works.

  


Yuuri makes Yuri agree to come to dinner at his and Viktor’s apartment that Saturday. He won’t take his excuses, already moved the date twice to make sure Yuri could make it. So, he heads home early enough that night to take a shower and change.

When he opens the door to his apartment, however, Alexei is already there, inside, waiting.

“Yura,” he says. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

Yuri stands as still as he can, trying not to look at Alexei’s face. “I’ve been busy.”

Yuri is strong, but not the kind he needs to be to hold his ground against the force with which Alexei pulls him into the apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him.

“Please,” Yuri says. “Not now, I have somewhere to be.”

“You can be late,” Alexei says. There’s alcohol on his breath and it pulls at his stride, makes his actions uneven. Brash. But no less strong. He grabs Yuri’s arm and pulls him into the bedroom. “You’ve been late for me before.”

“No, please,” Yuri begs. Because Alexei feels dangerous tonight and Yuri doesn’t want to break a promise to Yuuri. He doesn’t want to disappoint Yuuri.

Alexei turns on all the lights and it is suddenly blinding. “I’ve missed you, Yura. Let me see you.” Yuri holds himself tight, hugs his arms around his stomach. “Oh, come now. Show off that body you work so hard for. Let’s see it.” Alexei peels Yuri’s arms away from his chest and pulls at his sweatshirt. Yuri stumbles backward.

“I have somewhere to be soon,” he says again.

“Meeting with someone more important than me?” Alexei says. “Someone like him?” He’s pointing to a poster lying on the floor. _How did that get there?_ Yuri looks around the room and he can see that the drawers of his desk are open, the closet door as well. Various objects from his shelves are lying haphazard on different surfaces.

“You went through my things?” Yuri asks, angry.

“Is that who you jerk off to when I’m not around?” Alexei says, still pointing at the ground. At Yuuri, looking back up at them both. Frustrated tears threaten the edges of Yuri’s vision and he tenses himself up, making his hands into fists that hurt with the force with which he clenches them.

“He’s nobody,” Yuri says, and it sounds weak even to his ears.

Alexei punches him and Yuri gasps at the pain spreading across his cheek and nose. He feels himself being lifted and thrown onto the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri says, hoping it will do something. Believing it just enough. “I’m sorry, please.”

But it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t when he hears his phone _ping_ at the sign of a text. And another, and another. Not when his phone starts ringing, or when Alexei shuts it off. He can’t struggle anymore, he’s too tired, so Yuri stops fighting and lets it happen. There will be fewer bruises afterward this way.

Late that night, after Alexei falls asleep on the bed, Yuri unravels himself from the covers, each movement sparking new pain, and puts back on his clothing. He brings his phone into the living room. _Yurio! Remember dinner tonight!_ The first text says. Then, _Yurio, you promised!_ Then, _Are you alright? Do you need a ride over?_ Then, _Yurio, please call. We want to make sure you’re ok._ Then, five missed calls.

Then, a knock on the door.

Yuri doesn’t want to answer, he has no idea what he looks like now. He hasn’t gotten the courage to look in the mirror. But more knocking would be sure to wake Alexei up and he doesn’t like the idea of that either. So, he grabs his key, opens the door, and slips outside.

He ducks his head as Yuuri, standing alone in the lonely light of the hallway, sighs in relief.

“Yurio, I was so worried. I wanted to… Oh. _Oh_ , what happened?”

Yuri wishes the light was a little dimmer, so he could hide the black eye behind the shadows of his hair.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, but makes a mistake when he backs away. There’s a limp in his step he can’t hide. Yuuri notices.

“Who did this?” Yuuri asks, and when his voice is that stern, Yuri finds it hard to lie.

“Alexei,” he says.

“That designer intern? You’ve been… you’ve…”

“Seeing him, yeah,” Yuri says. He wasn’t planning on ever telling anybody. It sounds weird, saying it out loud. “He’s inside.”

Yuuri’s face does strange things then. It shines and deforms into rage and Yuri can only hope that he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t want Yuuri to yell at him right now. He’s never seen Yuuri look like that before and Yuri’s upset at himself that it was him who turned it into something ugly.

“I’m going to kill him,” Yuuri says, voice uncharacteristically low. He’s reaching for the door.

“No,” Yuri says.

“ _No?_ Look at you! What happened…”

“I’m aware,” Yuri says, surprising himself with how calm the words come out. He’s tired, so tired, and he’s hurting all over. It’s all he can do to keep his voice steady. “I don’t need you to be my babysitter.”

“I’m not your babysitter,” Yuuri hisses. “I’m your friend. Why can’t you see that?” He takes a breath, lets it out, and stares hard at the closed door. “You’re coming back with me, alright? I won’t go in there and you won’t either. Tomorrow, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

And Yuri agrees because it’s Yuuri, but it’s more than that too. He is his friend. He is more than a poster, a dream, a beautiful skate. He is his friend.

Yuuri calls a cab and they wait for it a couple blocks away. He won’t look at Yuri as he stomps down the sidewalk. Yuri walks slightly behind him, like a scolded child. Because he didn’t go back to get a jacket, Yuuri gives him his to wear. From where he walks, he can see Yuuri fold his arms together, muscles tight, then watches him force himself to release them. They swing awkwardly by his sides.

“It wasn’t just this once, was it?” Yuuri says when they stop at the corner. His hands are opening and closing into little fists.

“No.”

“I asked you,” he says. “I noticed, but I didn’t… You lied to me.”

It’s Yuri’s turn to look away. “It’s not your problem.”

The cab rolls toward them. As he climbs in, Yuri notices the way Yuuri’s brows are knit, his mouth turned down. He’s crying. Yuri can’t hear it, and once they’re inside the car with the doors shut he can’t see anymore either, but he knows what Yuuri looks like when he cries. They say nothing more on the short drive, but in his head, Yuri sets Yuuri Katsuki’s voice on repeat. _I’m your friend. I’m your friend. I’m your friend._

  


The next day, Viktor and Yuuri go over to Yuri’s apartment. They change the locks and grab some of his belongings so he can stay longer with the two of them. Meanwhile, Yuri plays with Makkachin.

The evidence of their life together is subtle, but everywhere. Framed photos on the mantle (so domestic), two books stacked on the bedside table (one in Japanese, one in Russian), shoes in different sizes by the door, two toothbrushes (one electric, the other a free plastic piece of junk from the dentist), sticky notes on the fridge with notes (all in English, some with hearts scribbled on them). Yuri had been angry, before, at what he had assumed was playing house. The perfect little dinner dates with mixed ethnic food displayed in fancy dishes. But it he knows now it isn’t bad that they worked so hard for this. It’s so hard, to get this right.

The door unlocks and Yuuri walks in, carrying one of Yuri’s backpacks.

“Viktor’s going to the rink, but he isn’t going to stay long. He’s just letting Yakov know we’re not coming in today.”

Yuri’s eyes go wide before he can stop them.

“He’s not saying anything,” Yuuri says, putting the bag down on the couch beside him. “But don’t think that means we both think you shouldn’t say something yourself.” His voice is still hard. Yuri looks away.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri says.

“No. No. I’m sorry. _Fuck,_ I just don’t know how to talk about this properly.” He sighs. Yuri doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard Yuuri swear. “Will you at least talk to me?”

Yuri is silent. He doesn’t know what words Yuuri wants to hear.

After a few minutes, Yuuri reaches for the bag he’s brought and opens it up. He pulls something out, unravels it, and reveals the poster of himself. The stupid poster he should have burned years ago. Torn apart. At the very least, hidden better.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“You.” _Why did he have to make this more humiliating than it already was?_

“I know it’s…” Yuuri swallows. “Is it some sort of joke? Hated me that much that you decided to, I don’t know, throw darts at it or something?”

Yuri looks at his idol, his underdog, his friend, and doesn’t understand why he would think that of himself. Except, of course, that Yuri encouraged that type of thinking, didn’t he? Insults and competition were the only way he knew how to communicate. It had all ended up wrong.

“I heard from Viktor that you had posters of him up on your wall when you were growing up,” Yuri says.

“Of course I did,” he says, trying to laugh the implication away. He’s still tense, though, and the lightness isn’t convincing. “Didn’t everybody?”

“No,” Yuri says. “I had a poster of you.”

And Yuuri looks at him, astounded. He stares, opened mouthed and a little dazed. And that face, the way Yuuri doesn’t take his eyes off of him, makes the swelling in Yuri’s chest burst. Yuri’s tears reach his eyes and he cries and cries because all he wanted was somebody to look at him like that. Like he mattered enough to stop the world.

They do talk, though it takes time. It’s awkward and frightening. He leaves parts out, things he can’t say. He gets up to get a drink when he can’t stand to see Yuuri’s reactions. But he tries, because these types of relationships take work too, not just the ones you take to bed. He’s only halfway done by the time Viktor comes home, but Viktor sees them and excuses himself to the kitchen to make them dinner.

They take a break to eat before talking some more. Yuri eventually falls asleep on the couch, lulled by Yuuri’s voice telling him he’ll be alright.

  


When Yuri does move back to his apartment, he brings the poster back with him. He puts it back up on his wall, and his room feels a little more _his_ again. More like home. Sometimes, he _does_ want to throw darts at it. But mostly he looks up at it from his bed before he dreams of being on the ice.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dieofthatroar on Tumblr. I like new friends.


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